


asterisms

by aerialbots



Series: constellations [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Character Development, Character Study, Cybertronian Civil War, Fix ALL the Bayverse, Fluff, M/M, Only Relatively Slow Burn, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-03-14 23:17:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13600539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerialbots/pseuds/aerialbots
Summary: "The hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it."-- Richard Siken,Snow and Dirty Rain.True self is without form. In learning how to understand others, Drift comes to know himself.





	1. elita one

**Author's Note:**

> All the thanks to [Aki](http://archiveofourown.org/users/akisawana) for not selling me to the circus and [Kath](http://archiveofourown.org/users/spacecarrots) for letting me drag her down with me into Rarepair Hell™ like three times this week.

_The light is no mystery,_

_the mystery is that there is something to keep the light_

_from passing through._

 

After the fourteenth time she drops Drift flat on his aft (and ninth time she drops him on his face), Elita One sits down on the mat, legs crossed as she leans closer.

“You’re angry”, she says, like it’s nothing but a casual observation.

Drift keeps his field as even as he can, which is not a lot right now, but manages to reply without growling like a sparkeater. Mostly. “‘Course I am, you keep fragging beating me.”

Her mouth quirks, because if he’s gathered anything from their daily sessions, it’s the fact that she’s _weird_ , and hard to ruffle. “That’s good. You can use anger, as long as you don’t let it consume you. Which is, incidentally, where you keep going wrong.”

Drift scoffs. “What do _you_ know of anger?”, he says scathingly, but sits up to at least glare at her face to face. He learnt not to underestimate her from their first lesson.

Elita’s gaze turns wry, sad. Drift has never been to Kalis, but she seems how he imagines a lighthouse above the sea, for all she is smaller than him, the pale silver of the room only furthering the impression. “I was a sparkling during the second Quintesson war, firecracker. I know more than you think.”

His face softens almost hesitantly, melting into a frown. It’s not even that he’s angry at _her,_ personally. At this point it’s just part of him. “Never heard of it. How long ago was that?”

“Long enough few people remember. It spanned whole lifetimes, for some.” Elita pauses for a moment, looking for words. She presses her palms together, aligning her fingertips, then laces them together so she’s holding her own hands. “No two things are truly the same, but once you’ve seen enough of them, all wars blur into one. Loss. Strife. Hunger. Never trusting the world to be safe.”

“It isn’t”, Drift says, but can’t find it in him to make the words bite. It all sounds so exhaustingly familiar, and he doesn’t like pushing her away. She’s been nothing but kind to him, aft-kicking notwithstanding. “Safe.”

Elita dips her head in acknowledgement. “No, it is not. But there _is_ safety in numbers, and in love. Do you know why I learnt to fight?” Drift shakes his head, curious despite himself. “I took in a young mech as my creation. She was my first one, so new and bright and sweet, and my own carers had left me long ago. There were being raids in every major city, and I didn’t want to die if I could help it. I couldn’t bear to leave her alone.”

“I don’t have sparklings”, Drift says, not quite defensive. He’d never even thought about it, before -- no one would have wished the Dead End upon their creations, and runaways were always on the older side, or unwanted extras from mass creation. Batch mechs. “Doubt I ever will.”

Elita’s optics catch his own, magnetic and inescapable as any sun. “And yet, Ratchet cares for you. Is it not as important?”

What an absurd question. Drift frowns all the same, considering. “You think I should protect him?”

“I think we would all like it if you could protect yourself.” A wry smile, her white optics somehow warm. “Though I must admit helping with that temper of yours would be a great bonus. Ratchet worries when you get yourself hurt.”

“Why bother?”, he scowls, looking away, if only to ignore the overwhelming burst of emotion that last comment provokes. “I’m just Rodion trash.”

"Ratchet saw worth in you", Elita points out, pulling one of her knees to her chest, completely undaunted by his sulking. “ _I_ see worth in you. I wouldn't have accepted you as a student if I hadn't. It would be nice, however, if you could see it yourself.”

Drift's spark twists painfully, and he hates how fragile his voice sounds just then, but he can't seem to be able to control it. "I don't _know_ how. All these… _things_ , with-- finding me and helping me and Ratchet letting me stay… It doesn’t feel true. People like me don't get to have this sort of thing.”

“People like you”, she repeats, her face unreadable on the edge of his vision. He shrugs uncomfortably, looks down at the dent on his ankle from his second fall, refusing to fidget. “Drift”, she says, no judgement in her voice, no anger, so much like Ratchet talks to him, and yet nothing like it at all. “You are one of the bravest, strongest, most determined mechs I have ever known. We live in a flawed system, one which failed you much worse than it does most people, and still you managed to survive, to put pride aside and accept help when it was offered. I can assure you, in all my time, I have never met anyone quite like you.”

He doesn’t know how to reply to that. He kind of feels like crying, but at least he’s not angry anymore. Just tired, tired enough it doesn’t even hurt to whisper, “I don’t even know who I am”, beyond the dull, spark-deep ache he’s felt all his life.

Elita’s nod isn’t so much seen as it is felt, but her field blooms past the careful control she keeps on it most of the time, warm, and kind, and understanding, and Drift can’t bring himself to shy away. He doesn’t really want to. “I’m afraid I can't tell you who you are. No one can, and few people are ever sure, even about themselves. But you have the potential to become anything you like, and if you know what that is, I would be honoured to help you get there.”

They fall silent for a long, slow moment, minutes bleeding away like hope, or energon, or sand. Eventually Drift’s field loosens, and he forces his shoulders to relax, if only by degrees.

He takes a deep breath, releases it slowly, and lets himself meet Elita’s gaze. “Yeah. Alright.”


	2. wheeljack

_Words, little words,_

_words too small for any hope or promise, not really soothing,_

_but soothing nonetheless._

 

Initiates to the Knights of Cybertron are promoted to squires based on skill, wisdom, and self-control. It takes roughly five centuries, for most, though the most impressive case on record states a mech was promoted within one and a half.

Drift isn’t, strictly speaking, part of the Order, but he _has_ been training in tandem with the initiates at Elita One’s offer, and can hardly believe it when she says he’s improved enough that he could join the squires just shy of his two and a half century mark.

He says yes, _obviously,_ and is ecstatic enough upon receiving the news that Elita One decides to accompany him back to Iacon’s central district, lest he causes a pile-up in his excitement; Drift can’t even protest, considering he hasn’t managed to stop grinning yet. He blathers endlessly for half the way, then remembers he’s supposed to at least _attempt_ to have some dignity, and tries to emulate Elita’s serenity the remaining half.

Judging by the amused look she gives him as they transform outside the hospital where Ratchet’s currently working, he’s not as successful as he hoped. Still, it’s not enough to curb his enthusiasm -- he managed not to provoke any traffic accidents, and he's hoping so very hard that Ratchet will be proud of him it's hard to concentrate on anything else.

"Try not to celebrate too hard", Elita tells him, probably not as stern about it as she should be. "Beta is far less merciful than I.”

Drift's optics widen dramatically. "You were being _merciful_ this whole time?”

Elita laughs, her field genuinely pleased for all she shakes her head as if despairing of him. " _'Take him as a protege'_ , I told myself. _'It's been a long time, and he has potential.’_ Next time I'll just have another sparkling and be done with it.”

"I'm no expert, but I've heard grappling sparklings into submission is seen as bad form", Drift says, grinning all the harder.

"Ah, true", Elita sighs, then ruins the effect by laughing again. "Go off, then. Give Ratchet my best, before I decide some extra training is in order.”

"Shall do.” He offers Elita a deep bow, cherishing the smile she gives him as she nods in return. "Primus be with you.”

''May the light guide your steps.”

  


Drift is entirely aware that Ratchet isn’t his in any sense of the word. The mech saved his life, rescued him from the streets, found a way to help Drift attain some sense of purpose -- if anything, in Drift’s book Ratchet’s the one who can call him his. Drift has to admit, though, the fact that he doesn’t seem to have any more of an interest in finding a romantic partner (or several) than Drift does is kind of a relief. He’s only just starting to find his footing, and he appreciates not having to worry about getting in the way for someone who’s done so much for him.

Which is why the way his spark tries to _violently_ _implode_ when he enters Ratchet’s office to find him hugging some strange mech threatens to floor him almost as much as the frankly embarrassing confused noise that follows.

“What-- oh, Drift!”, Ratchet beams, the alarmed look on his face shifting into a smile as he realises the source of the dying turbofox sound was just his resident stray-slash-roommate. “I was about to comm you, this is my--”

Oh Primus he has a _conjunx_.

“-- _amica_ , life ruiner, all around favourite person”, the mech cuts in, laughing when Ratchet whacks him on the shoulder, the fins on the side of his face lighting a cheerful pink. “Such _violence_ , yikes-- anyway, name’s Wheeljack.”

Drift doesn’t know what expression his face is making, but whatever it is makes Ratchet smile apologetically, half disentangling from his friend. “Jackie’s been off-planet for a couple of centuries now -- left not long before you and I met, in fact. I thought we might treat him to dinner, if you’re not too tired.”

 _But I had news,_ says a tiny whisper in his head. Drift makes a point of smiling extra wide as he mentally swats it away. “Sounds good to me.”

Wheeljack whoops, picking Ratchet by the waist and spinning them in place, the medic’s protests nowhere near effective when paired with loud giggling.

Drift kind of wishes Elita had given him extra training after all.

  


With dinner comes the realisation that Wheeljack is fragging _impossible_ to dislike, so earnest and friendly and funny that Drift can’t help but enjoy himself, despite the occasional pinch of annoyance when the mech ends up hoarding Ratchet’s attention. Drift’s heard stories about him before, ever since Ratchet found him, but it seems Ratchet always failed to mention how slagging smart and nice and _good looking_ his scientist friend was. All the warning he ever gave Drift was about not giving Wheeljack free rein if either chemicals or applied physics were ever involved.

“Oh _Primus_ ”, Wheeljack wheezes upon being told as much (well, at least the last part), and fails catastrophically at glaring at Ratchet, “You’ve been spreading lies again, haven’t you? How dare you slander my name without me being there to drag it even further.”

“The sad thing is”, Ratchet says wryly, optics sparkling as he shares a look with Drift, "he’s not even joking.”

Most the evening is spent talking about Wheeljack’s interplanetary shenanigans, with some dips into Ratchet’s own life in between. Wheeljack seems interested in Drift’s story, as well, but even though he’s far more comfortable with it now than he used to be before, Drift can’t quite bring himself to answer with anything more than short, evasive sentences, and thankfully Wheeljack doesn’t push it once he gets the hint, and lets Ratchet lead the conversation into safer territory.

He does ask Drift for his support whenever he and Ratchet start bickering -- which happens a _lot_ , and considering how much Drift and Ratchet do it, that is really saying something. They argue over _everything,_ from the best way to make a glitter bomb with household items to whether it’d be worse to get caught in an acid storm without protection or to trip into the Fire Lakes, and considering some of the stories that come up in the process, Drift has _no idea_ how either of them survived their academy years.

Wheeljack’s a little too effusive for Drift’s tastes, and he can’t help but resent his presence a bit when he was hoping to have Ratchet’s attention for himself for the evening, but all in all, it’s… nice. As far as first meetings go, he thinks this is probably a good one.

  


Getting home is the best part of Drift’s day.

There’s something infinitely comforting in coming back to a familiar space, the way the rooms seem to become static in their absence, waiting for their return. Drift loves Ratchet’s flat, loves its clear white walls and faint scent of disinfectant, the deep red and oranges of the furniture, faintly faded from constant use, the hints of black and grey scattered in its smaller details. Mornings still feel like a dream, most times, but tired from training and matching Ratchet’s steps, Drift can allow himself to believe that this is something he can have, that he’s _earned_ it.

He steps aside after entering, pressing his back against the wall just to feel the tiny click as the locks slide shut. Ratchet’s hand rests briefly on his shoulder, his field affectionate and patient as it always is in response to Drift’s newfound idiosyncrasies, before making his way to the kitchen to put the leftovers away. He never used to take them with him, not until he saw Drift’s horror at the idea of just discarding food like that, back in the early days. There may come a day when Drift no longer feels the quiet, constant thrum of anxiety from not trusting his next meal to come, but until then Ratchet seems determined to make the transition easier for him.

He probably stands there motionless a bit too long, because Ratchet gives him a curious look when he comes back into the room.

Drift’s mouth curves into a faint smile, mostly out of habit. “Going to bed?”

“Nah, don’t really feel like recharging yet. Mind keeping me some company?”

“Course not”, Drift says, warmth filling his spark when Ratchet smiles back at him.

They settle down on the sofa, close enough for comfort but far enough Drift doesn’t need to try too hard to hide his field, Ratchet’s frame lax like it rarely is when he’s not recharging. His body’s half turned towards Drift, head resting on his arm over the backrest, and it reminds Drift of some of the portraits one of the other initiates has shown him, pale blue light streaming over his frame, turning the red details of his paintjob into darker shades, the overall effect strange and breathtaking.

Ratchet offers his hand to him, palm up, and Drift takes it without need for thought. He can feel Ratchet’s contentment radiating like the flares of a distant sun, a gentle tide that soothes what little of him was still upset from earlier. Drift lets his frame mirror Ratchet’s on the couch, optics dimming with a soft sigh when Ratchet’s thumb strokes the side of his hand, infinitely tender.

“Hey”, Ratchet murmurs, and Drift doesn’t need to look at him to picture the gentle look in his optics. “Want to talk about what upset you earlier?”

Drift blinks, somehow still surprised at Ratchet’s perceptiveness, finials tilted back. “How did you know?”

Ratchet smiles, just a little. “I’ve had enough time to learn to read you, kid. Were Wheeljack and I too much? I know we can get kind of loud.”

“No, no, that wasn’t it. I liked Wheeljack”, Drift assures him, and finds he really means it, effusiveness and all. It was nice seeing Ratchet laugh so much.

“Then?”, Ratchet prompts gently.

It takes him a long time to find the right words, but Ratchet doesn’t push him. Drift opens his mouth, then bites his lip, suddenly embarrassed. “It’s… it’s  kind of stupid.”

“Drift, I’ve taken _so_ much slag that shouldn’t go up delicate places out of people’s insides, nothing you could ever tell me would sound stupid by comparison”, Ratchet replies dryly, and it startles a tiny laugh out of Drift.

"You always say that.”

“And it’s always true”, Ratchet says. “What is it, kid?”

Drift shrugs, looks away. “I... I wasn’t expecting the thing with Wheeljack. It kind of threw me off, I guess.”

Ratchet’s hand stills, field tinging with worry, and Drift can feel his optics on him. “Did we make you uncomfortable? I know I touch him more than I do anyone else, I didn’t even think…”

"No, no-- or, I mean, yes, but it wasn’t _you_ , personally, I just…” Drift sighs, tucking his head into the crook of his own elbow, but doesn’t let go of Ratchet’s hand. “He was so smart, and fun, and _normal,_ and I know I’m-- I still have a lot to work on, and I guess I felt a little envious of how naturally it all came to him.”

Ratchet listens, little threads of surprise in his field, but it’s swiftly replaced by such a strong wave of affection that Drift has to look back at him, just in time to see a faint smile settle on his features. “You know, you’re nowhere near stupid, but you _are_ a little blind. Wheeljack’s my _amica_ , and a wonderful person, but kid-- so are you. You’re the best friend I’ve had in a long time, right up there with Jackie, and Optimus, and Elita. You have no idea how much you’ve made my life better since we met.”

Drift’s spark dissipates, then, or implodes, or possibly both things at once, and any control he might have hoped to keep over his expression just slips away as Ratchet tugs on his hand, bringing him close. He tucks his head under Ratchet’s chin, right over his spark, clings to him the way he never allows himself to, the part of him that’s broken and only barely starting to heal hurting just a little less when Ratchet is holding him just as tight.

"You’ve made coming home something I can look forward to”, Ratchet tells him quietly, just a low, deep murmur brushing against his finial. “You listen to me, and you make me laugh, and you give me those peeved looks when I tell you I’ve forgotten to eat. You made me remember I became a medic because it _matters_ , because I wanted to help people, because someone needs to try. The world’s a fragging _mess_ right now, that’s just how it goes, but if I can help just one person like I got to help you, it feels like it could be worth it.”

There’s nothing he can say to that -- nothing he can do but shut his optics, let himself sag into Ratchet’s hold, even as his hands cling to him all the tighter.

“Plus”, Ratchet adds, painfully soft, and Drift can feel the faint curve of his smile against his plating, “it’s nice to know I’m not alone in this place. Even if you do talk in your sleep.”

Drift laughs, and maybe his field is tinged with bittersweet joy and helplessness, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world. “I do _not_.”

“You definitely do. It’s okay, it’s kind of funny. I liked the time you scolded me for jumping into the Fire Lakes. I could hear you even through the wall.”

“You’re the worst”, Drift tells him, but curls against Ratchet’s chest, burrowing into his hold like a stray moon locked into orbit.

“I know”, Ratchet murmurs, smiling against the top of his head. “I know.”

  
  
The next morning, when Drift finally tells him about Elita’s offer, Ratchet’s smile is so bright it outshines the dawning light, and the pride in his voice is worth a thousand lifetimes’ wait.


	3. rodimus

_Things happen all the time, things happen every minute_

_that have nothing to do with us._

 

There’s a heavy weight at the end of his bed, next time he wakes up. Coming online feels as though trying to wade out of the Silver Seas, everything too slow and fuzzy for his spark not to hurry into a fretful spin, but his whole frame sags minutely in relief when he’s hit with the scent of oil and medbay disinfectant, promising he’s home, he’s _safe._

The next thing he notices is the bright orange mech watching him silently.

“Uh”, Drift says, eloquently. “Hey. Rodimus, right?”

The mech -- Rodimus -- nods, braces a hand on the bed to peer a little closer at Drift. His frame is marked by lines in sharp, sinuous relief, as though flames are creeping over his plating, matching the near-tournesol effect of his chromatophores. There’s something about his face that makes Drift think the Aerials would probably like him, though he can admit to himself that that’s not always the best of character endorsements. “Yeah. I hear you’re guy who volunteered to mess with the Decepticons after what happened to Nyon.”

“That’s… not exactly how it happened, but yeah”, Drift agrees, mouth quirking hesitantly. “You’ve got the gist of it.”

Rodimus’ face twitches in something that _looks_ like it wants to be an answering smile, but his optics seem too somber for the expression to lend itself to anything softer. He feels familiar in the way of someone long heard about, but never personally met, and faced with the reality of what tragedy has done to this mech -- to Elita’s ‘bright little star’, always laughing and getting into trouble, talking with his whole body as well as his voice -- makes something in Drift ache at the contrast.

“Thank you. For deciding to go.” Then, imperceptibly fractured in the way of truths held back too long: “I wish it had been me.”

Drift’s optics soften, reminded of a handful of stardust not so dissimilar to Elita’s young star. “You were injured and in shock, Rodimus. Ratchet would never have let you set foot outside of medbay, let alone infiltrate Decepticon command.”

“We’ve all suffered more than our share”, Rodimus says, the turn of his face stubbornly unhappy, as though war is really ever that simple. “It’s no excuse.”

“And yet I’m still not going to blame you”, Drift says, not unkindly. “Nor is anyone else.”

“That’s fine”, Rodimus replies, blithe but for the bitter undercurrent to his voice. “I blame myself more than enough, trust me. Overachieving, and all that.”

Drift snorts before he can help himself, remembering quite clearly how that’d worked out for his younger self. “Keep talking like that and someone’ll drag you out for training until you cry it out. Trust me”, he adds wryly, “I’m speaking from experience.”

Rodimus’ optics narrow, but then an amused glint blunts the suspicion at their edges. “Huh, that’s right-- you trained with Elita One a couple of centuries, didn’t you?”

“Technically still am”, Drift says. “I’ve been informed she’s going to drill the idiocy out of me once I’m healed, or kill me trying.”

A bright, honest laugh escapes the younger mech, and Drift doesn’t even try to hide his satisfied look. “Sounds like her alright. At least she didn’t leave you to Beta’s mercy.”

“She did so, once, and I’m still pretty sure that’s an oxymoron”, Drift points out, shifting a little and gesturing for Rodimus to get comfortable on the bed. “Dry ocean, cold lava--”

“Slow racers.”

“Sobering engex.”

“Nebulan music.”

“Oh Primus, never say that near Slingshot”, Drift laughs, burying his face in his hands. “He’s obsessed with their rock operas, it’s awful, he’ll either try to punch you or convert you with terrible mixtapes.”

Rodimus smirks, one leg folded under him on the bed. “Speaking from experience again?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I’d have preferred the punching, to be honest.”

“That bad?”

“ _Worse._ ”

“Yikes.” Rodimus tilts his head, glancing around the -- for once -- mostly empty medbay. “I gotta say, though, I’m surprised they left you alone. I’ve been waiting for _days_ for them to stop hovering.”

Drift blinks. “How so?”

“Well, I know it’s hard to tell, based on my roguish good looks and carefree personality”, Rodimus says wryly, “but I’m not much for emotional conversations in front of large groups of argumentative airframes.”

“Aw, they’re not that bad”, Drift laughs. “Though it’s just as good that Superion got drafted to help Skyfire with colony evac -- they’re not exactly good at staying still.”

Rodimus’ optics sparkle. “Sounds like you could use some more friends.”

“Since my only company is a hyperactive coalescent, their assorted bondmates, and a medic who still hasn’t stopped glaring at me for nearly dying, I’ll happily take some company that’s not a living hazard”, Drift agrees, finials twitching with amusement.

Rodimus laughs, a grin that’s nothing like Elita’s yet somehow _exactly_ as alarming taking over his features, “Drift, pal, I’m not a hazard. I’m an _experience_.”

It occurs to Drift that he may have possibly just signed his own death sentence (likely by angry Ratchet, if they get into as much trouble as Rodimus’ face promises), but with that vacant edge to his optics gone, Rodimus looks much closer to the mech Drift had always wanted to meet, brave and kind and bright as the sun.

It’s a start.


	4. wing

_Let me do it right for once,_

_for the record, let me make a thing of cream and stars._

 

The sky is still dark when Drift heads out of the medbay, the chill in the air turning his breath into mist, cooling his plating just enough to be pleasant. It feels as though he can still feel Ratchet’s frame pressed to his own, their hands close and fingers intertwined, legs tangled with each other’s, and despite having woken up in a similar fashion for several days now, it has yet to lose any of its wonder. He doubts it ever will, if the first thing he sees upon onlining is always Ratchet’s face, face lax in his recharge, that worried pinch to his mouth fading into something softer, kinder.

His shift doesn’t start for another few hours, but Ratchet rarely has time to laze about, even during slower days, and Drift is more than smart enough to know better than to get in the way. In any case, he’s helping Ironhide train some of the newer recruits afterwards, and he’d rather have some time on his own while he can get it.

The small white jet he finds in his favourite meditation spot throws a bit of a wrench in his plans, however.

“Good morning”, Drift says after a moment, carefully sitting down next to his surprise visitor.

“Light be with you”, Wing greets back with a tilt of his wings, ever polite and just as impossible to read. “I apologise for interrupting your morning ritual -- I wished to speak to you before, but it didn’t seem courteous to intrude upon you and your family.”

Drift shakes his head, finials flicking back. “That was nice of you, but you needn’t have worried. I would’ve thanked the opportunity to finally meet my mysterious saviour.”

There’s the faintest trace of amusement in Wing’s field, for all his face remains tranquil. “I wouldn’t put it so heroically. I was merely in the right place at the right time, fortuitous though it may have been.”

“Huh.” Drift turns a little further towards him, idly notes the odd similarities in their frames, despite their designs being so clearly different. “So what exactly were you doing out in the badlands?”

Wing shrugs, not quite meeting Drift’s gaze. “Wandering, for the most part.”

Drift raises an optic ridge, gives him a rather eloquent look he’s seen Ratchet use to devastating effect, be it on the Aerialbots or Prime himself. “And that's all there is to it, is it?”

At that, Wing… doesn’t _squirm_ , per se, but all of a sudden Drift is surprised no one seems to have noticed how _young_ the jet looks. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Well, this might come as a surprise to you, but nobody goes there if they can help it”, Drift says dryly. “I would know -- _I_ couldn't help it, and got left to slowly melt to death.”

“Fair point”, Wing concedes. The line of his mouth twists faintly, halfway between defensive and uncertain. “Do you really want to know?”

“Not if it will upset you”, Drift says, a little softer. “I’m wondering, yeah, but you don’t _have_ to tell me if you don’t want to.”

The fight seems to leave Wing all of a sudden, and he shakes his head. “I am not so fragile. It is just… not a pleasant story.”

“I’ve had my share of those”, Drift replies, brushing faint comfort to the other’s field. Wing holds his gaze for a long moment, but relents with a nod, allows his own field to loosen.

“I was brought online in Ontarom, on the outer rim of the Xylanthos system.” He turns up his left hand, the small holographic projector on his wrist lighting up to display a planet mostly covered by pale silver oceans, massive stretches of land scattered throughout its circumference like shooting stars or paint splotches. “I lived in New Crystal City almost half my life, in one of the southernmost islands.”

“You named it after Praxus?”, Drift asks, surprised, soft.

“Not personally”, Wing says, half-smiling, and gets a chuckle out of Drift. “But yes, several places were. Just as many were named after other cultures, though all main populations had claimed independence from our home planets generations ago. And yet...” His shoulders are set in a seemingly steady line, but Drift is more than familiar with the minutiae of grief. He knows the way loss carves itself into one’s body, changes it from within, and can’t help but notice the way Wing’s voice catches minutely. “A little under a rotation ago, the Decepticons found us.”

 _Oh,_ Drift thinks, and his spark aches for the pain in Wing’s voice.

“They came to the isles with the largest Cybertronian populations, told us about the conflict raging back home. How theirs was a battle against the same injustices our founders had rejected when they left for Ontarom, against the Senate’s corruption, the pervasiveness of functionism.” There’s an echo of Lord Megatron’s words, in there -- both the Protector who’d called the Planetary Senate out on their wrongs and the revolutionary that Drift would have probably followed in a sparkspin, had his fate not been forever changed by a medic in a Dead End clinic a lifetime ago.

Deadlock hadn’t been entirely a fabrication, after all. Just a twisted, nightmarish version of what Drift knew he once could have been.

But Wing isn’t done speaking, yet. “They demanded we joined their cause. At least some of us would have done so willingly, but… not all. And our organic compatriots would never have allowed us to be forced into servitude.” Then, devastatingly quiet: “We paid dearly for our defiance. They destroyed our atmosphere, let two thirds of our people die gasping for breath while we could do nothing but watch, and then red rained from the sky. Some strain of the rust plague, which most us had never been even _heard_ of, let alone been exposed to.” Wing’s hands tremble, optics bright with anguish as he looks down to the projection cupped in his palm. “Less than a dozen of us survived, organic and mechanical alike.”

Drift places a hand on Wing’s shoulder, pulls him close and lets his field bloom in full force when the mech makes a broken, haunted sound, a world’s worth of grief in his small frame. He’s shaking in Drift’s arms, and Drift holds him as tight as he can, wishing desperately there were _anything_ he could do for him. “Wing, I’m so sorry.”

“So am I.” His voice cracks, the full weight of his frame resting upon Drift’s. Has he even been comforted, in all this time?

They sit like that for long, quiet minutes, sharing warmth and comfort in the silver-blue of the early morning. Eventually, Wing speaks again, head tucked against Drift’s shoulder. “I never wanted vengeance. I only came here to understand.” It’s too steady for a whisper, fragile as a confession. He’s a starship lost in the dark. “I just cannot believe this much devastation could have ever been something important enough, vital enough, to be worth all we had been.”

Drift revs his engine comfortingly, more vibration than noise, not unlike he’s seen Ratchet and First Aid do with Jolt. “Would you like to tell me about before?”

He’s silent, at first, but his fingers curl around Drift’s armguard. “I… yes. I think I would. Though there was so much to us I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Start at the beginning”, Drift suggests. “Were you part of the group that first left Cybertron?”

He gets a shake of Wing’s head and a flick of white wings, careful not to hit him. “I’m fairly young, especially for New Crystal City. Only about a third of our population was born in Ontarom. Dai Atlas, our leader, gave up his post as Knight-Commander to the Knights of Cybertron after Galena Prime’s death, and gathered like-minded mechs to create a new colony, a place where all species could live side by side, and offer help to whoever needed it. A safe harbour in the heart of the galaxy.”

“A noble goal”, Drift says, and means it. “I take it that it worked?”

“It did. It was… I’ve seen other worlds, mostly through the extranet, but none of them ever compared to ours. We lived upon spires, high in the clouds. Bridges joined each tower, so crystalline you could see miles and miles below, all the way to the ground.” A twitch of a smile lightens his features. “It was not for the faint of spark.”

Drift thinks of Silverbolt, smiles ruefully as well. “No, I suppose not.”

Golden optics stray to the horizon, warm like lanterns on the Lost Light festival. Wing’s voice is steady, so full of love Drift aches with it, the familiar yearning for better times forever gone. “Organics joined us in small numbers, at first, come from the reaches of the universe to live among us in peace. We strove to be kind, and just, and everyone was given a place, and cared for.”

“What about you?”, Drift asks, tilting his head a little to glance curiously at Wing. “Prime told me you were a Knight.”

“I have been one for a little under a millenium now, yes.” Wing nods. “Our traditions differ from those we carried with us from Cybertron -- we were no longer it’s Knights, but the Circle of Light. We believed in leading by example, so some of us were chosen to embody the virtues we wished to uphold. I was given a choice, upon sparking. The Avatar of Truth had reached the end of their calling, wished to start a family, let go of their mantle. I could be raised as their successor, or make my own way.”

Drift frowns, uneasy. “Sounds no better than the functionists.”

Wing shakes his head. “Not at all. It was an honour, not a burden, and I was never afraid. I said yes because I wanted to.”

Drift nods slightly, acknowledging the correction. “What was your mentor’s name?”

“Theoremas. _Poetry in truth_.” Wing smiles, faintly, fondly. “They had the most beautiful aura. I could have asked for no better master, nor a dearest friend.”

“I understand.” Drift’s field seeps with affection as he thinks of Elita’s determination, the kindness that comes from her very core -- of Alegoria and Rodimus, who are almost polar opposites, and yet resemble her so much. “Mine is much the same.”

White wings flare with surprise and delight. “You’ve trained in the ways of the Guiding Hand?”

“I have. Still do, whenever the time can be found, though it is rare, nowadays. Elita One, our Knight-Commander, took me under her wing, and her _amica,_ Beta, has overseen much of my training. They lead some of our best troops.” Then, hesitantly. “You could meet them, if you wished.”

A spark lights hesitantly in those optics -- too hurt to hope, too lonely not to. “You’d do that for me?”

“You’ve done far more for me”, Drift points out, bumping their shoulders together. “If it weren’t for you, I would’ve never come home.”

“You’re too kind.” A true smile graces Wing’s face for the first time, softening his sharp, somewhat alien features and making him look as young and sweet as any of the Protectobots, as trusting as a newspark. There is wealth of gratitude in his field that Drift has only ever experienced himself, but never received from others, and he hugs Wing a little tighter in both reassurance and response. “I’d very much like that. It would be good to have something familiar, even if it isn’t the same.”

Drift presses the top of their heads together, feels Wing’s ease in response to the tenderness he lets into his field. “Then have it you shall.”

It’s only a seed of hope, a fragile light in the darkness, but it’s a beginning. For now, as they watch the sunrise, it is enough.


End file.
